The Eagles' Brood cc-3

by Jack Whyte

  Six short hours after the meeting at the basilica, dawn was starting to make itself apparent in the eastern sky and there was still no sign of the expected reinforcements for the thieves. My stomach was churning with unease since, with the dawn, I would have to take my men into the town, leaving the enemy at my back. Knowing well the dangers of delay and the growing need for incisiveness, my officers had assembled around me, awaiting my decision. They sat their horses in silence.

  We were less than a mile from Verulamium, on the northeast approach, where the road dipped down into a valley at the end of the final straight stretch to the east gates. My men were spread out on both sides of the road, facing north-east. In the darkness, in unknown territory, our choice of terrain had been severely limited, but this was to have been a night action and the enemy would have been massed on the road. Now, with a cloudless sky, my soldiers would be blinded when the sun came up. I heard hoofbeats on grass, approaching fast, and young Yerka, one of my decurions, came at a gallop, pulling his horse to a rearing halt beside me.

  "They're coming, Commander, but they're still a long way off, more than two miles up the road and all afoot. Pellus sent word as soon as his men made contact."

  I grunted, my mind made up for me by the news. There was no point in our remaining here on the hilltop facing an open valley. The newcomers would turn and disperse the moment they saw us in the gathering light. I turned to my commanders.

  "We've nothing to gain by remaining here. The valley there is almost a mile wide. We'll go down into it and move across it, at the walk. By the time we reach the other side, it, should be full light, and the enemy should be within a quarter mile of us. We'll charge up the hill and over, half our force on each side of the road, and our surprise should be complete. They won't outrun us from there, and we'll have them. We'll spread out and overtake them on both sides, ride around them, then turn and take them from the rear, with the sun at our backs. Then we'll chase them down here into the valley and make sure that none of them gets out again. As soon as it's over, we will regroup and return to Verulamium. Move out now."

  I rode down into the small valley—which looked for all the world like the dried-up bed of a river far more massive; than the tiny stream that flowed there now—keeping to the road, between our two groups, and gave the signal to halt when we were less than two hundred paces from the northern rim of the valley. I checked right and left, making sure my lines were ready, then signalled the advance. The sound' of our horses' hooves swelled like thunder as we built up * speed, and then we were surging up the side of the valley and breasting the swell of the slope.

  My estimate had been correct. The forces opposing us! were less than a quarter of a mile from the rim of the valley ] when we rose into their astonished view, and the far sides of my formations had already extended into their enveloping sweep before I fully became aware of what was happening ahead of us.

  In the first place, I had expected to see a rabble of about a hundred ruffians who could be relied upon to halt immediately and then scatter in panic. What I saw in fact, was a force almost equal to my own, but of infantry. And instead of panicking; they were already beginning to deploy into two tight, diamond-shaped defensive formations bristling with long, wicked-looking spears. Everything developed very quickly, almost too quickly, and I barely had time to shout to my trumpeter before it was too late. I saw his astonished face as he heard my order and raised his trumpet to his lips, dragging his horse to a halt. I reined in my own mount, signalling to all who could see me to do likewise, and as the brazen call rang out, loud and clear, I watched my men's fine, dashing charge falter and die.

  Less than fifty paces remained between me and the forces now drawn up against us. I held my mount still, watching and waiting as my troopers reorganized themselves, pulling their horses in and around and then converging silently around the enemy force until my own position became merely one point in a circle. There were horsemen among the enemy formations, four that I could see. For a long time, no one moved at all, and an unnatural silence stretched throughout and around the circle. Finally I kicked my horse and moved forward, aware of Donuil and someone else, probably the centurion Rufio, moving behind me. I walked my horse forward until half the distance separated me from the other ranks, and there I stopped and waited. The defensive ranks eddied, then parted, and the four mounted men came forward to meet me. As they came, I studied them, picking out their leader immediately. He was a well-made, handsome man with a great, drooping moustache in the Celtic fashion. I guessed him to be about ten years older than me, in his late thirties. He wore a conical metal helmet with no face guard and leather armour studded with bronze plates, and he rode straight-backed, his head held high to expose the thick, gold chieftain's tore that circled his neck. The other three rode slightly behind him, one of them an enormous man, fully as big as me. He wore a helmet in the Roman fashion, with a tall, horsetail crest and bronze side-flaps that obscured most of his face, but I could see that he was younger than his companions, blue-eyed and clean-shaven. The other two wore full beards.

  The leader stopped a horse's length in front of me, and his eyes swept over the men ranged on either side of me. He had evidently appraised my appearance as I had his. When he spoke, in Latin, his voice was deep and pleasant.

  "Who are you? Romans?"

  I shook my head. "No, We are Britons, from the west."

  One eyebrow rose. "Where in the west?"

  "A place called Camulod."

  He shook his head, slowly. "I have not heard of it."

  I nodded, accepting the truth of that. "You will."

  "Who are you?"

  "My name is Britannicus. Caius Merlyn Britannicus. Who are you, and whence come you?"

  He smiled. "I am Vortigern, King of Northumbria. In the north-east." As he spoke, one of his three companions advanced to sit beside him. I ignored this one, keeping my eyes on Vortigern. This was the man of whom my father had spoken disparagingly. The king from the north-east who had made a suicidal pact of some kind with the Outlanders.

  I kept my voice pleasant. "And why does the King of Northumbria ride through South Britain with an army?"

  He gave a great, barking laugh, and I felt a liking for him, in spite of my misgivings over this meeting. "Army?" he scoffed, "This is not an army. It is an escort, and not even mine. I have it by the good grace of my friend, here, Jacob of Lindum." He indicated the grizzled man who sat beside him. I looked at Jacob of Lindum and nodded. He returned the gesture soberly.

  "That answers only half my question, Sir King," I continued. "You have not said what brings you to South Britain."

  "No, I have not. Nor have you told me why you attacked me, or almost did."

  I shrugged. "The attack was planned, but not against you. We were expecting.. .a different force."

  "What kind of force?"

  "A rabble, come to swell the ranks of a band of thieves who have fortified themselves in the town behind us."

  He turned on his horse's back and looked at the men behind him, and some kind of signal passed among them. I felt myself grow tense, but he turned back and put my mind at ease. "I believe then we have saved you the trouble. We met them yesterday, late in the afternoon. They attempted to take advantage of our advance party, not realizing we were close behind. We chastised them and sent away those that remained to lick their wounds."

  I felt a great sense of relief, and it showed in my next words. "Then we are well met here. Where are you bound?"

  "To Verulamium, to hear the bishops debate."

  Now I laughed aloud. "Then welcome, King Vortigern, and all your friends, to Verulamium. Now, if you will stand your men down, I will arrange for mine to escort yours, and we will enter Verulamium together, where I will introduce you to Bishop Germanus, sent from Rome, who is awaiting our return with some anxiety, I have no doubt."

  Between there and the town, I explained to Vortigern and Jacob of Lindum what had been happening, and from the moment our combined force
s arrived within sight of the town, the unrest was over. Faced with the menace of our combined forces, and outnumbered more than six to one, the brigands surrendered immediately to Bishop Germanus—they would speak with no one else—claiming sanctuary and bargaining for their lives with the promise of returning the stolen supplies unspoiled. The alternative they offered, and I for one had no difficulty believing them, desperate as they were, was that they would set fire to everything and die fighting. In spite of the discontent voiced by Linus's auxiliaries, frustrated now through losing their chance to spill blood, their terms were accepted and they were banished under fear of death. The stolen food supplies were then restored to their rightful owners, and regular hunting and foraging parties were dispatched to search for and procure sufficient food for all comers.

  It was not until much later that day that we all came together again, the crises resolved, and this time there was ample opportunity for talk and relaxation. Vortigern's men, or rather Jacob of Lindum's, were encamped close by my own, and at Vortigern's request, I had gone with my officers into his camp, where he regaled us with fine food and wine.

  At one point in the early evening, I found myself alone with Bishop Patricius, and took the opportunity to question him about the priest called Remus. Patricius remembered the man clearly enough, but did not know him well. They had merely travelled together, he said, as far as Camulod, which was the furthest west Patricius had ever been. He had met the priest while on his own way north after a visit to a brother bishop in the now almost derelict town of Isca Dumnoniorum in the south-west, having decided to visit Camulod solely to meet my aunt, since he had heard so much about her from his peers, who knew of her from Bishop Alaric's time. Remus had accompanied him after a chance meeting along the way. He then went on to tell me, however, that only weeks before our present meeting he had learned, in a letter from his friend in Isca, that a priest called Remus had been killed in that town after being caught beating a young woman to death. Still visibly upset over such behaviour and such a death for a priest, he wondered to me whether or not it might be the same man. For my part, stunned by the import of his story, I told him the entire tale of Cassandra's ordeal, and he promised to pray for both of diem.

  I left him after that and walked away to be alone, feeling my heart bounding within my breast. Remus had repeated his crime, it seemed, and died for it, which meant that Uther was innocent, absolved, and I was freed from doubts and agonizing. Given, of course, that this dead priest was the same Remus! I resolved to inquire of the bishop in Isca as soon as I got home. There surely could not be two priests called Remus who walked with the aid of a stick!

  XXXV

  Later that evening I went looking for Lucanus, to share with him the tidings from Patricius, but before I could find him I felt myself being watched. That is a strange sensation, and one almost impossible to describe, but when you feel it, when you feel someone's eyes on you, there is no mistaking it. I froze in mid step, trying to place the emanations that assaulted me, then I turned slowly round and looked to where a figure stood in shadow, observing me.

  I squinted, peering in vain to penetrate the shadows and identify more than the black shape I saw. "Who's there?" I called. "Who is that? Come out, where I can see you!"

  The figure stepped forward into the light and I felt my heart give a mighty throb as my breath caught in my throat, threatening to choke me. I was looking, in astounded disbelief, at myself! And "myself' was staring back at me, wild eyed. Wordless, lost in mutual disbelief and amazement, we moved slowly towards each other. The apparition facing me was differently dressed, but of a height, build and colouring that matched me perfectly.

  I was the first to speak. "Who are you, in God's name?"

  He stared back at me, as though considering whether or not he ought to answer me. "Ambrose. Ambrose of Lindum. Who are you?"

  "Merlyn Britannicus."

  "So it was you! We met this morning. I ride with Vortigern."

  He began to move sideways, around me, looking me over from head to foot, and I did the same, so that for a spell we circled each other like wrestlers. My mind was racing, for I recognized him now as the tall, helmeted warrior who had ridden behind Jacob.

  "Ambrose of Lindum?" I was searching my mind for some explanation of his startling appearance, telling myself that such coincidences—such astounding resemblances between total strangers—must, and do occur. But all I could see in my mind was the stocky squatness, the short, bowed legs and the square, grizzled, red-hued face of the only other man I had ever met from Lindum. "Are you the son of Jacob of Lindum?"

  He shook his head. "No. He is my uncle."

  "Your father's brother?"

  "No." Another headshake. He was almost squinting at me as he continued, "Jacob is husband to my mother's sister. My father was a Roman. He died before I was born. His name was Ambrosianus.. .Mar-"

  "Marcus Aurelius Ambrosianus!" The name exploded in my mind and from my lips like a lightning bolt as the answer came to me and I knew with complete certainty to whom I was speaking.

  His eyes flew wide with shock. "How could you know that?"

  I turned my back on him, clutching my head in my hands as a storm of conflicting emotions caught me unawares; despair mixed with exaltation, and other feelings too new and sudden to analyse or define, threatened to overwhelm me. He was my brother! My half-brother! My father had had another son! And had died without knowing it! Reeling with the sudden knowledge, I felt my senses desert me and I fell to one knee, incapable of remaining upright. In a moment, he was kneeling facing me, clutching my shoulder, his eyes wide with concern.

  "Are you ill? What's the matter? Here, let me help you up."

  I took hold of his arm, feeling, even in my confusion, the strength of the muscles there, and climbed back to my feet, fighting to keep from swaying and falling down again. My brother! And out of nowhere, unheralded, unthought of and unsought...yet not, I knew with absolute, startling clarity, unlonged for. But now what was I to do? What could I say to him? How could I tell him what he had found, whom he had confronted? How does a man tell another man such a truth as I had to tell him? Certainly not abruptly, that much I knew.. .I could have no thought of blurting it out in the open without any kind of preparation. Faced with the sudden, certain knowledge of his own mother's infidelity, a man might kill—and justifiably—the bearer of the tidings. I also knew beyond question that I had to distance myself from Ambrose of Lindum immediately, at least for long enough to grapple with my own thoughts, and come to some kind of arrangement with myself, some plan for informing him, welcoming him without being too precipitate or causing more than necessary pain. Nor was the irony of such a "welcome" lost on me—he would not thank me for it, not at first. Such welcoming might be the most unwelcome of all his life. It did not cross my mind for a moment, nevertheless, that I should not tell him, nor did any feeling of animosity towards him exist in my mind or heart. I simply knew I had to remove myself from his presence for the time being, and the further the better.

  I thanked him for his assistance and begged his pardon, pleading a sudden nausea from something I had eaten, and left him standing there, gazing after me in perplexity, as I sought the cloaking anonymity of the darkness beyond the campfires.

  The night was cool but pleasant, and I walked quickly once my eyes had adjusted to the dark, pacing with great strides that stretched my legs and made me concentrate on watching where I trod while I allowed the tumultuous thoughts inside my head to riot, swirling and tumbling as they willed, seeking their own level in the way of floodwaters, roiling and turbulent, clashing in violence and only slowly, gradually, inevitably lessening and gentling to a point where I could begin to make some order from their chaos. I recalled the tale my father told, and the tragic incompleteness of his knowledge: his lifelong ignorance that his illicit, nocturnal communion with the "dream- woman" who had used him and almost repaid him with death had resulted in a son who was the image of his unknown sire, a soldier—as wi
tnessed by his place at Vortigern's side—whose very bearing would, I suspected, have brought a swell of pride into my father's—his own father's—chest.

  As these thoughts were passing through my mind, however, I found time to wonder at my own reactions to this Ambrose, telling myself ruefully that I had no reason for endowing him with the attributes that sprang so readily into my imagination. I knew nothing of him, beyond our one all- too-brief encounter, and I well knew the folly of placing too much trust, too soon, in any man. And yet I also knew I could trust my own instinctive assessment of men, even complete strangers. My life had depended on that ability too many times in the past for me to doubt it now. Ambrose, I believed, would be all that he appeared to be, and I felt sure, deeply and strongly within myself, that the day would come when he and I would be brothers in every sense of the word.

  By the time I stopped walking, I had passed far beyond the confines of the camp into an open meadow, and I stood there for a long time, staring up at the myriad swirling, spiralling stars in the cloudless sky, allowing my mind to empty itself, and then recalling how, one night in the time of my grandfather's father, one of these same stars had crashed to earth, bringing the Skystone and Excalibur into the world of men.

  He called himself Ambrose, Ambrose Ambrosianus, proud of his Roman blood, but he was in error and in ignorance. His real name was Britannicus, Ambrose Britannicus, son of Picus Britannicus, son of Caius Britannicus, latest in a long line of Eagles. He was, or ought to be, as much as I, a Prince of Camulod, equal with me and with Uther. My body stirred with goose-flesh. Perhaps here was the man to wield Excalibur! Perhaps this was the one whom, according to Uncle Varrus, I would know above and among all others— the Champion whose coming had been dreamed. He bore the blood of Caius Britannicus; perhaps he had the vision, too.

  Fighting to contain my excitement, I swung round and gazed back towards the lights of the campfires, too far away to see who moved there, but thrilled to my bones with the knowledge that one of them, one of those moving forms, was my own brother, Ambrose Britannicus. The Great Debate, I realized gradually, had become almost insignificant to me now, usurped by the most urgent imperative in my life: the need to sequester, to inform, to embrace and to come to know my sibling. Calm once more, my heartbeat safely harnessed, I set out back to the encampment to find him and draw him aside to where I could tell him all that he must know.